


hung by the chimney with care

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, New Year's Eve, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: A collection of TMA December bingo prompts! Specific summaries will be included at the beginning of each chapter.Chapter Seven Summary:“Looks like we’re stuck here in front of theawfullywarm fire and I’ll beforcedto make us some hot chocolate,” Tim says with a grin.“Your facetiousness is not appreciated,” Jon says flatly. Then, more sullenly: “And we’re out of hot chocolate.”
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 43
Kudos: 230





	1. table of contents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! This is a collection of one-shots written for a December bingo card, found [here](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/post/637080292900929536). This is the table of contents, where you can find a short summary of each chapter, the relationship, and the stage of the relationship 💛

  1. _table of contents_
  2. _snow-cold kisses_ – Jon and Tim have a snowball fight [jontim, established relationship]
  3. _wine, tea, and tannins_ – The archival staff drinks, Martin says some things, and Jon sings [jonmartin, first kiss]
  4. _operation admiral_ – The Admiral is lost, and then he is found. Elias is not amused [gen, chatfic]
  5. _lost and found_ – Jon receives a gift and forgets to open it [jonmartin, s1 pre-relationship]
  6. _ten to one_ – The archival staff counts down to the new year [s1 polycule, established relationship]
  7. _rice and almonds_ – The snow outside the safehouse is a foot deep, and they’re out of hot chocolate. Tim improvises [jonmartim, established relationship]




	2. snow-cold kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do not,” Jon says stiffly, “ _appreciate_ having snow thrown at me.”
> 
> “Come _on_ ,” Tim groans, shaking a bit of the excess snow off his gloves. “It hardly ever snows. Just let me enjoy the moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt: snowball fight, jontim

_Hey, boss!_ is the only warning Jon gets before something hard, wet, and _very_ cold hits the back of his neck. A few clumps of icy snow slip down the collar of his jumper, sliding down his back and sending a shiver throughout his entire body. The glare he shoots Tim as he turns to face him is hot enough to overcompensate for the chill.

“Oh, _ouch,_ ” Tim says, placing a hand over his heart and taking a staggering step backward, though the absolutely _ridiculous_ grin splitting his face nearly in two remains. “That’s quite a look.”

“I do not,” Jon says stiffly, “ _appreciate_ having snow thrown at me.”

“Come _on,_ ” Tim groans, shaking a bit of the excess snow off his gloves. “It hardly ever snows. Just let me enjoy the moment.”

It’s true that London certainly isn’t known for its record-breaking snowfalls, but an unexpected cold front had swept through over the weekend and had brought with it a few inches of snow that had managed to stick. Jon had nearly slipped on his way into the Institute that Monday, his forward momentum halted only by Tim’s firm grip on his hand. Normally, he would have protested the contact; though it wasn’t a _secret_ , necessarily, that they were together, Jon still wasn’t keen on public displays of affection with someone who was _technically_ his subordinate. Though there wasn’t anything in the employee handbook forbidding it. Not- not that Jon had checked the handbook, though, that- that would be ridiculous.

However, as Tim pulled Jon upright and said, his words laced with humour, “Careful, Jon. Don’t think a concussion is a great way to start the week,” Jon had been grateful for the tight grip on his hand. Though he’d tried very hard not to show it. He has a professional reputation to maintain, after all.

Here, though, at Tim’s house after work—with Tim having dragged Jon out of his office at five on the dot with an impressive set of puppy dog eyes and a, “There’s _snow,_ Jon, come _on._ That’s gotta qualify as a supernatural event in London, so we should _definitely_ check it out.”—there’s no one to see them, no imaginary judgement to be passed, no questioning of his professionalism (aside from Tim’s occasional ribbing that Jon wouldn’t know proper archival procedures if they slapped him in the face). So, without softening his glare in the slightest even as most of his irritation dissipates, Jon says, “I’m fairly certain you would derive significantly _less_ enjoyment from the experience if you _also_ had snow down the back of your jumper.”

Tim sighs, long and drawn out. “Always so _grumpy._ And here I thought we were bonding.”

“Tim, we are _literally_ dating. We don’t need to have a- a _snowball_ fight to bond.”

Tim sighs again, looking wistfully into the distance. “Still.” He pauses a moment, almost certainly for dramatic effect, before giving a small shrug. “Fine, fine. We can go inside.”

Good lord, does he need to sound so _disappointed_ about it? Irrationally, Jon suddenly feels quite guilty. They’ve only been together for a few weeks, but they’ve been friends for much longer, and it feels like Jon’s having to rediscover parts of Tim that he’d thought he’d known. Like how Tim’s smiles are just a bit wider now, just a bit freer, when he directs them at Jon. Or how when Tim cooks for him, it feels less like an _of course, that’s what friends do_ and more like a _welcome home, love, how was your day?_. Or how, in times like this, Jon feels like he’s not doing things quite right, like he’s missed a step somewhere and has stumbled. Tim catches him every time with a smile and a laugh, but that doesn’t stop the nagging worry at the back of Jon’s mind that it’s all just…

Well, that it’s all just professional courtesy.

Maybe that’s why, when Tim turns to head into his house, Jon hesitates only a moment before stooping down, gathering a clump of snow into his hands, squishing it hastily into a vaguely spherical shape, and throwing it in Tim’s general direction.

It misses, because of course it does. Jon’s never had anything close to hand-eye coordination, and so the snowball sails past Tim’s head and connects solidly with his front door, leaving a small spot of white against the dark green where it hits. Still, it stops Tim in his tracks, and Jon begins to panic, his face heating with embarrassment despite the cold nipping at his cheeks, because _Christ, now I just look foolish, don’t I?_

He’s already fumbling to form another snowball when Tim laughs, a small, surprised thing that’s so different than his normal, full-body laughter that Jon freezes, half-stooped with his gloveless hands buried in the snow. “Was that a _snowball?_ ” Tim says, voice light with disbelief. He turns, and Jon straightens quickly, a lump of snow clutched tightly in his hands and beginning to melt where it meets his skin.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He glances down at the snow in his hands, engages in an intense internal debate on whether to drop it or continue to hold it or, god forbid, _throw it_ , and ultimately ends up just staring at it and not quite meeting Tim’s eyes. “Yes?”

There’s the sound of crunching snow, and Jon looks up just in time to see another snowball sailing toward him. He yelps and ducks, but not fast enough to avoid the splash of cold against his shoulder as it hits the space between his scarf and his jacket. Somehow snow slips between the two and begins the slow process of trickling ice-cold water down his skin. “Hey!” he says, aiming for indignant and landing on something closer to whining.

Tim shrugs, his smile wide and teasing. “Hey, just returning fire.”

Jon’s eyes find the snow still clutched in his hands, melted down slightly but still in the general shape of a snowball. A part of himself slips free, bringing a small, easy smile with it, the kind that only Tim seems to be able to draw to his lips. “I understand,” he says solemnly, and then throws the snowball.

There’s a good deal more shouting and laughing before the both of them stumble inside, snow stuck to their hair and clothing and cheeks bright red from laughter and the cold. Jon’s fingers are _freezing,_ and when Tim leans in to press a soft kiss against his lips, he takes the opportunity to press his hands to the back of Tim’s neck, running them under Tim’s jacket and down the skin of his upper back.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Tim says, jerking back on instinct, much to Jon’s chagrin and eternal amusement. “Your hands are _freezing,_ Jon.”

“Well,” Jon says primly, “as I recall, _someone_ wanted to have a snowball fight.”

“Oh, you’re insufferable,” Tim groans. “You know that, right?” He reaches forward and presses Jon’s hands between his own, rubbing them briskly until pins and needles begin to form under Jon’s skin, cutting through the icy numbness. “Come on, let’s make something warm. Hot chocolate?”

“Mm, please.”

Jon hesitates only a moment before placing another quick kiss on Tim’s lips. Maybe Tim was right, he thinks as they make their way into the kitchen. The snow had been quite enjoyable indeed.


	3. wine, tea, and tannins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin doesn’t drink wine. It’s partly because of the tannins, sure, but it’s also partly because he’s never really had the highest alcohol tolerance, and when he’s drunk, everything that crosses his mind somehow ends up out in the open. 
> 
> Now, however, he’s got a glass of wine held in his hand, sitting at Tim’s house with Tim, Sasha, and him squished together on Tim’s threadbare couch and Jon sitting cross-legged in the armchair off to the side, and it’s _hard_ not to let everything he’s thinking spill out into the open. Because Jon is singing, and it’s probably the most beautiful thing Martin’s ever experienced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompts: music, drinks, jonmartin
> 
> happy holidays everyone! and if you celebrate christmas, merry christmas!

Martin doesn’t drink wine. It’s partly because of the tannins, sure, he wasn’t lying about the headaches—there’s just something about _wine_ tannins that hits him harder than _tea_ tannins. But it’s also partly because he’s never really had the highest alcohol tolerance, and when he’s drunk, he… _talks._ Everything that crosses his mind somehow ends up out in the open, and even though he’s ended up embarrassed and regretful more times than one, he just can’t _stop talking._ Christ, it’s embarrassing. So when he’s around other people, he just… doesn’t drink. It’s easier that way, especially since he started working at the archives and—

Well, and since he met Jon. Because he _knows_ that if he ever lays a single eye on Jon while he’s a few glasses deep in wine, he’s not going to be able to stop himself from writing impromptu, _terrible_ poetry about the colour of his eyes, or the sharp angle of his jaw, or the way his slender fingers look gripping a wine glass in the actual, proper way, his hand cradling the bottom to keep the wine warm—because he drinks reds, of course he does, the man drinks his tea oversteeped and black, clearly tannins have _no_ effect on him, not like Martin who—

Martin sucks in a breath and tightens his grip on the wine glass he’s currently holding. Right, time to stop that runaway thought process in its tracks, or he’ll be spilling the entire thing before he has a chance to register that he’s opened his mouth. He takes a nervous sip of his wine to compensate—something white and sweet, he doesn’t remember what Tim had called it, though he thinks it might have started with an ‘R’—and tries not to look at Jon.

It’s hard. Because they’re at Tim’s house with Tim, Sasha, and Martin squished together on Tim’s threadbare couch and Jon sitting cross-legged in the armchair off to the side, holding his glass in one hand and a nearly-empty wine bottle in the other, his cheeks flushed so deeply Martin can see it plainly even against his dark skin. The top button of his shirt is undone, slipped just enough off to the side to reveal the sharp plane of his clavicle, and at some point during the night his hair had come loose from its braid, spilling grey-streaked curls down his shoulders and back. Martin has to quickly take another drink of wine to keep from blurting out how soft they look.

But that’s not even the _worst_ part. No, Martin’s not lucky enough for that. If that was it, Martin could just keep his eyes locked firmly forward, trying to nod in all of the appropriate places as Tim tells some story about his latest weekend adventure or as Sasha recounts an exploit from her uni years that sounds just absurd enough to be true. He’d probably end up saying _something,_ but it would be minor. Inconsequential to anyone but him. Hell, Jon probably wouldn’t even notice.

No, that’s not the _worst_ part. The worst part is that Jon is _singing,_ and it’s probably the most beautiful thing Martin’s ever experienced. Or ever will experience. He’s not entirely convinced yet that he hasn’t just died and gone to heaven.

They’ve had Tim’s speakers playing Christmas music for the past few hours as they slowly worked their way through a tray of decorated sugar cookies and several bottles of wine. It had taken quite a lot of convincing—and just a bit of bribing on Tim’s part—to get Jon to come at all, and he’d spent the first half of the night curled up in the armchair, nursing a single glass of wine and listening to Tim and Sasha bicker about whether or not The Nightmare Before Christmas is a Christmas movie or a Halloween movie.

Martin had barely gotten through half a glass by that point, but the tingle of alcohol across his tongue had already loosened it enough to say, loud enough to cut through Tim and Sasha’s conversation but not so loud as to halt it, “Do you not like the holidays?”

_God, what a stupid thing to say,_ his brain helpfully provided as Jon looked at him, eyes blown wide like a startled deer’s. Martin hastened to add, “Ah, sorry, you- you don’t have to answer that—"

“No, it’s.” Jon paused, before sighing heavily. “It’s fine.” He took another long sip of his wine, not quite meeting Martin’s eyes, before continuing, “I’ve just… never really had any interest in celebrating around this time of year.” His lips pressed together tightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to continue. Martin opened his mouth to say that it was fine, really, he didn’t mean to push, when Jon said, a bit softer, “I suppose I just never really had anyone to celebrate with. After my grandmother passed, that is. It all seemed a bit…” He waved his hand, sending the red liquid in his glass sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “Overdone.”

Martin couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him, and he hastened to cover it up with a small cough. “Yeah, it rather is, isn’t it?” He gestured at Tim’s rather impressive collection of Christmas paraphernalia with what he hoped was levity. It must have worked, because a corner of Jon’s mouth quirked up in a smile.

Martin almost blurted out right then and there the exact way that Jon’s smiles made him feel, even the little, hesitant ones. _Especially_ the little, hesitant ones. The drink of wine he took was long and deliberate, and the heat that rose to his cheeks was only a little because of the alcohol.

After that, Jon relaxed a bit. One of the bottles from the side table made its way into his hands, and then into his glass, and then past lips that Martin just _could not_ stop staring at. Martin wasn’t exactly sure how they’d gotten from then to now, with Jon’s voice making Martin’s heart melt into his stomach and Tim and Sasha watching with what Martin could only describe as _rapt attention._ He’s pretty sure Tim is filming.

He’s vaguely aware that the song Jon’s singing is _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,_ and that he’s getting the words just a little bit wrong, but he doesn’t really care. Jon could be singing absolute nonsense and he’d still think that Jon has the loveliest voice he’s ever heard, and that the stress lines on Jon’s face that make him look much older than he is smooth when he sings, and that if Jon ever sang to _him,_ he might actually die.

He’s just _stunning_ like this, and Martin’s really never been so in love.

It’s not until the weight of three pairs of eyes falls on him that he recognises that he’s staring quite openly at Jon, and when he frantically tries to recall the past few moments, he realizes that he’s said it all out loud—the _loveliest voice,_ and the _stunning,_ and the _love,_ and—

Martin stands so abruptly he almost drops his wine glass. His brain spins for a moment before settling on the brilliant excuse of, “I’m going to go make some tea!” before he practically sprints out of the living room.

The moment he’s got a wall between him and Jon, he sets his wine glass down on the counter with a heavy _clink_ and buries his face in his hands. The heat of his cheeks burns his palms, and he wishes it would melt him entirely so that he could just _disappear_ and pretend like he didn’t just write Jon an entire bloody _love confession_ while wine-drunk in Tim’s flat.

Because he _knows_ Jon, but not like Tim knows Jon. Not like Sasha knows Jon. He works in the library, and they’re in research, and yeah, they all spend time together, but he’s not _close_ with Jon like they are. And things are good that way between him and Jon! Or they were, at least.

Martin groans, a low, drawn-out sound, and takes his head out of his hands, deciding that if he’s going to hide in the kitchen, he may as well _actually_ make some tea, at the very least to calm himself down. And his heart jumps into his throat, bringing with it an entirely undignified noise of surprise, when he sees Jon standing just a few feet in front of him, hand stretched tentatively into the space between them.

“Ah!” Jon retracts his hand quickly, letting it come to rest on his other arm in a way that feels strangely vulnerable. “I- sorry, I thought you’d heard me come in.”

“No,” Martin squeaks, then clamps his mouth firmly shut before something even _more_ damning comes out of it, like how Jon’s _here_ , standing in front of Martin with his face softened by alcohol _._ Had he _followed_ him? Martin presses a hand over his mouth, just for good measure. One can never be too careful.

Jon’s eyes follow Martin’s hand, and his cheeks flush an even darker colour. “You don’t have to…” he starts, before trailing off and clearing his throat. “Er. Are. Are you all right?”

Martin’s sharp laugh is muffled by the palm of his hand. He doesn’t take it away to respond, just nods once, even though he is very much _not_ all right, and he can’t really decide whether the swirling feeling in his stomach is going to make him laugh again or make him start crying. Possibly both; wine has that effect on him as well.

Jon’s face crumples into something so _worried_ at that that Martin’s heart seizes in his chest before picking back up at a rapid-fire pace. It’s probably the wine, too, that makes Jon’s hand come up and close around Martin’s, pulling it away from his mouth with a gentleness so shocking that Martin can’t even think to resist. And then Jon just _holds_ Martin’s hand, there in the space between them, his eyes fixed on Martin’s with a boldness that Martin really, _really_ wishes alcohol gave him. Instead, he just gets- gets _loose lips_ and an infinite amount of things to apologize for.

“No, you don’t have to apologize,” Jon says quickly, and Martin realizes that he’s said that out loud. _Again._ His distress must be written all over his face, because Jon shakes his head firmly and continues, “Martin, _stop._ Just- just _listen_ to me, okay?”

It’s not like Martin has much control over his speech at the moment. Still, he nods and tries very, _very_ hard not to say anything about how soft Jon’s hand feels on his and how he wants to hold it every single day for the rest of his life. He thinks he maybe lets something slip about _soft_ and _hand_ by the way that Jon’s eyes grow a fraction wider in surprise, but if he does, Jon doesn’t mention it. Instead, Jon places his free hand on the counter next to them in an effort to stop his swaying and says, earnestly, “ _Please_ don’t apologize for feeling things, Martin. You- you apologize so much, for things that are _not_ your fault, and every- _everybody_ has feelings, yes? I- _I_ have feelings, even though I don’t really, er, mention them, but _you do._ You’re- you’re just _full_ of feelings, Martin, and that’s what I _like_ about you!”

Martin is about 200% sure that Jon wouldn’t be saying any of this if he didn’t have an entire bottle of red wine in him, but he’s really too drunk himself to care. Instead, he nods mutely—or at least, he _assumes_ he doesn’t say anything, though he can’t really be sure at this point—and Jon seems to deflate a bit in relief.

He squeezes Martin’s hand again, and Martin’s so focused on the _feeling_ of it he misses the first bit of whatever Jon says. When Martin comes back to his own body enough to process something other than Jon’s hand on his, he hears Jon say, “—and I just wanted to let you know that _I do._ Er, as well. For what it’s worth.”

Martin blinks at Jon, trying and failing to parse the meaning of what Jon’s just said to him. “What?” he finally says, when the words won’t turn themselves upright in his mind.

Jon’s hand tenses in his, and he suddenly looks very embarrassed. His eyes flick away from Martin’s, landing somewhere on the kitchen counter next to Martin’s wine glass, and he says too rapidly for Martin to catch, “I’mtryingtosaythatIthinkyou’relovelytoo.”

Martin blinks _again,_ because everything is moving in slow motion, the wine dragging at his eyelids and making gravity seem all the more potent, and he just _can’t_ handle anything other than simple, straightforward sentences right now. “ _What?_ ” he repeats.

Jon draws in a long, shaking breath, and his hand slips from the counter. He instinctively catches it against Martin’s arm, pulling just enough to keep himself upright; then, in a stroke of boldness that Martin’s _sure_ is entirely fueled by wine, Jon moves his hand further up until it’s resting against Martin’s cheek. His entire face is flushed as he says, articulated and deliberate, “I’m _trying._ To say. That I think. You’re _lovely._ Martin. Blackwood.”

Martin’s brain takes about three seconds too long to process that Jon’s just called him _lovely,_ in which time Jon’s hand begins to retract, hesitation written over every inch of his face like it wasn’t _Martin_ who first announced his bloody love confession to everyone in Tim’s flat. Then, once _lovely_ has had a chance to firmly imprint itself upon his mind, Martin’s free hand darts out faster than he thought possible and captures Jon’s mid-retreat. It’s just as soft as the other one, and Martin thinks idly that their hands fit together quite nicely, when he really stops to think about it.

He shouldn’t be surprised when Jon smiles, wide and lopsided, and says, “Yes, I’ve noticed that as well.” Still, the flush that rises to his face is born less of shame this time and more from the tingling sensation that’s begun to spread from where their hands are joined throughout his entire body, warming him from the inside out even more than the wine had.

He looks at Jon, whose eyes are so, _so_ brown and staring at Martin with something that makes his stomach twist into knots, whose face is angled up to accommodate for the height difference between them and whose lips are parted ever so slightly, and he’s never wanted anything more in that moment than to find out if he can still taste the wine on Jon’s lips, or if they’re as soft as his hands, or if Jon will stretch onto his toes to meet Martin halfway.

He’s not entirely sure if it’s him or the wine who asks. But the words are spilt out into the open regardless, and Jon’s moving before he even gets the chance to finish his sentence.

He can still taste the wine, he finds as Jon stretches up to meet Martin’s mouth, one hand moving from Martin’s hand to the back of his neck to tug him down the extra inch he can’t quite reach. It’s bitter, a sharp contrast to the sugary white that Martin knows still lingers on his lips, yet achingly sweet all the same. Jon’s hands are soft against Martin’s face but his lips are chapped and slightly rough where they brush against Martin’s, but Martin finds that he doesn’t really care at all. Because it’s _Jon._

Jon’s kissing him in Tim’s kitchen, fingers threading in Martin’s hair and tugging lightly, which draws a sharp gasp from Martin that’s swallowed by Jon’s mouth, and Martin’s never been happier in his entire life _._

He finds out the next morning that Tim had, in fact, filmed Jon singing. And had taken photos of several _other_ events. Martin feels Jon’s hand slip subtly into his as Tim swipes through picture after picture, most blurry and unfocused, and his irritation evaporates like water in sunlight.

“Mm, that’s a good one,” Tim muses, pushing into Martin’s face a _very_ close up photo of Jon backing Martin against one of the kitchen counters with his arms looped around Martin’s neck, and Martin feels the irritation return tenfold.

“ _Tim!_ ”

And if Martin keeps that photo on his own phone after making Tim _swear_ to delete all the rest, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.


	4. operation admiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **the hot one:** say no more jon
> 
>  **the hot one:** well be right there
> 
>  **the final boss:** Tim, I already said it’s fine. The Institute holiday party is mandatory, so I suggest that you all remain there.
> 
>  **the hot one:** i hear u i hear u
> 
>  **the hot one:** but the admiral has always been my no 1 priority and i cannot stand by while he is in peril!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompts: holiday party, texting, s1 archives crew (and a bit of jonmartin)
> 
> my hand slipped and i wrote another one of these approximately 24 hours after the previous one. and apparently decided to make it a chatfic. enjoy?

Dec. 23, 2015, 20:05

_“super serious archives groupchat”_

**the hot one:** guys where are u

**the hot one:** please elias is staring at me and i need backup

**the hot one:** guys

**the hot one:** guys

**the hot one:** guys

**james bond:** tim i am literally five minutes away

**the hot one:** what happened to meeting at 8??????

**james bond:** it’s not my fault you decided to be early this time

**marto kart:** sorry tim! i missed the train :(

**the hot one:** i could never be mad at u marto

**the hot one:** sasha how could u

**james bond:** don’t be grumpy :P

**the hot one:** i am being perfectly fucking civil for someone whos sober at an office holiday party

**the hot one:** thank u very much

**james bond:** there’s no alcohol? damn

**the hot one:** oh my bad

**the hot one:** i forgot about the open bar that elias, our totally cool boss and the esteemed head of this grand institution, provided

**james bond:** timmmmm

**the hot one:** no sasha of course theres no alcohol

**marto kart:** i’m almost there!

**marto kart:** sasha i see you!

**the hot one:** i dont see u

**the hot one:** oh wait

Dec. 23, 2015, 20:34

**_Timothy Stoker_ ** _to **Jonathan Sims**_

**Timothy Stoker:** hey are u coming to the party?

**Timothy Stoker:** elias is asking about u

Dec. 23, 2015, 20:40

_“jon’s angels”_

**timothee chalamet:** guys has jon texted any of u?

**timothee chalamet:** hes not responding to me

**timothee chalamet:** also please come back im tired of standing here alone plus elias is staring at me again

**sish sash:** on our way

**keats:** uh

**keats:** no

**keats:** should we have texted him?

**timothee chalamet:** no no dont worry martin

**timothee chalamet:** hes just usually here by now

**keats:** ok well obviously now i’m going to worry

**sish sash:** martin it’s fine

**sish sash:** here i’ll text him

Dec. 23, 2015, 20:42

**_Sasha James_ ** _to **Jonathan Sims**_

**Sasha James:** hey jon are you coming tonight?

**Sasha James:** i know you don’t like parties but tim is asking about you

**Sasha James:** and he wants me to tell you that elias is

**Sasha James:** actually i’m not going to repeat that

**Sasha James:** just lmk!

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:05

**_Timothy Stoker_ ** _to **Jonathan Sims**_

**Timothy Stoker:** jon pls if u dont come get elias off my ass im not doing any follow-up for a week

**Timothy Stoker:** jk jk

**Timothy Stoker:** but really tho

**Timothy Stoker:** send literally anything if ur alive

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:17

_Missed call from **Timothy Stoker** to **Jonathan Sims**_

****

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:18

_Missed call from **Timothy Stoker** to **Jonathan Sims**_

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:18

_Missed call from **Sasha James** to **Jonathan Sims**_

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:19

_Missed call from **Timothy Stoker** to **Jonathan Sims**_

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:20

_“super serious archives groupchat”_

**the final boss:** Will you all please stop calling me?

**the hot one:** jon!!!!

**marto kart:** jon!

**the hot one:** youre alive!

**james bond:** jesus christ jon

**the hot one:** i refuse to stop calling u until u tell me where youve been

**the hot one:** jon?

**the hot one:** hold on im going to call him again

**the final boss:** Tim, I’m typing, please just give me a minute.

**the hot one:** oh forgive me for jumping to conclusions

**the hot one:** o wait

**the hot one:** i WASNT

**james bond:** on the one hand patience and tim do not belong in the same sentence

**the hot one:** hey :(

**james bond:** but on the other hand jon u did kinda vanish for an hour

**marto kart:** we were just worried :(

**the final boss:** I’m afraid a family emergency has come up and I’m no longer able to attend the holiday party. Please send Elias my regards and my apologies for the late notice.

**james bond:** oh no jon!

**marto kart:** oh i’m sorry jon!

**james bond:** what happened?

**marto kart:** you don’t have to tell us!

**marto kart:** but if you want to you can

**james bond:** o yeah!

**james bond:** sorry i didn’t mean to pressure you

**the final boss:** I appreciate your concern, but it’s fine.

**marto kart:** okay! please let us know if we can do anything :)

**james bond:** yes definitely!!! anything at all!

**the final boss:** Thank you, but as I said, I’m fine.

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:25

**_Sasha James_ ** _to **Timothy Stoker**_

**Sasha James:** you’ve been suspiciously quiet

**Sasha James:** what are you doing

**Sasha James:** tim i see you looking at your phone stop ignoring me

**Sasha James:** tim why are you smiling

**Sasha James:** who are you texting

**Sasha James:** tim

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:22

**_Timothy Stoker_ ** _to **Georgie Barker**_

**Timothy Stoker:** hey georgie!

**Timothy Stoker:** i have a ?

**Georgie Barker:** Now’s not a good time Tim

**Timothy Stoker:** will only take a sec

**Georgie Barker:** Fine. What?

**Timothy Stoker:** thx <3

**Timothy Stoker:** can u send me an admiral pic?

**Timothy Stoker:** i could rlly use one rn :(

**Georgie Barker:** Oh no

**Georgie Barker:** Tim I can’t

**Timothy Stoker:** oh no! what happened?

**Georgie Barker:** He got out

**Georgie Barker:** We’re looking for him rn

**Timothy Stoker:** oh no!!!

**Timothy Stoker:** do u need any help?

**Georgie Barker:** No no it’s fine

**Georgie Barker:** Jon is helping me look

**Timothy Stoker:** gotcha! sounds good!

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:25

_“super serious archives groupchat”_

**the hot one:** say no more jon

**the hot one:** well be right there

**marto kart:** wait we will?

**james bond:** ^^^

**the hot one:** meet by the entrance guys ill brt

**the final boss:** Tim, I already said it’s fine. The Institute holiday party is mandatory, so I suggest that you all remain there.

**the hot one:** i hear u i hear u

**the hot one:** but the admiral has always been my no 1 priority and i cannot stand by while he is in peril!!!

**the hot one:** and i dont wanna hear about ‘mandatory’ from u mr. family emergency

**james bond:** wait what

**marto kart:** ^^^^

**james bond:** wait wait

**james bond:** jon

**james bond:** the admiral?

**james bond:** like georgie’s cat the admiral?

**marto kart:** oh no

**james bond:** jon

**marto kart:** what happened to the admiral??

**james bond:** jon what happened??

**james bond:** jon??

**the hot one:** he got out of georgies flat

**the hot one:** theyre looking for him

**marto kart:** oh no!!!!

**james bond:** oh no!!

**james bond:** jon pls don’t stop responding again

**james bond:** jon??

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:27

**_Jonathan Sims_ ** _to **Georgie Barker**_

**Jonathan Sims:** Did you find him yet?

**Georgie Barker:** Not over here :(

**Georgie Barker:** What about over by you?

**Jonathan Sims:** No.

**Georgie Barker:** Fuck

**Georgie Barker:** He never does this Jon!!!

**Georgie Barker:** Never!!!

**Georgie Barker:** I didn’t even notice that he was by the door until he was gone!!!

**Georgie Barker:** I don’t know what I’m going to do if we don’t find him!!!!

**Jonathan Sims:** We’ll find him, Georgie. He’s too much of a gentleman to spend all night on the street, anyway. He’ll come back.

**Georgie Barker:** Jon

**Georgie Barker:** Was that a joke??

**Jonathan Sims:** Um. Yes?

**Jonathan Sims:** Georgie?

**Georgie Barker:** Thanks for coming to help me, Jon

**Georgie Barker:** It means a lot

**Jonathan Sims:** Oh. You’re welcome.

**Jonathan Sims:** I would never abandon my cat.

**Georgie Barker:** Our cat

**Georgie Barker:** Technically MY cat now but yk

**Jonathan Sims:** I hardly see how that’s relevant.

**Georgie Barker:** Stop texting and start looking Jonathan

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:30

_“super serious archives groupchat”_

**james bond:** okay we’re coming jon

**james bond:** be there soon

**the hot one:** in your hour of need, we will be there!

**the hot one:** for the admiral, of course

**james bond:** jon it’s important that u know that as tim was texting that he walked into a lamp post

**the hot one:** rude

Dec. 23, 2015, 21:45

**_Timothy Stoker_ ** _to **Jonathan Sims**_

****

**Timothy Stoker:** jon where r u

**Timothy Stoker:** o wait i see u lol

**Timothy Stoker:** do u always wear a full-piece suit when scouring the streets of london for runaway pets or is out of respect for the admiral’s rank

**Timothy Stoker:** [photo message]

**Timothy Stoker:** this is a good look for u boss

**Jonathan Sims:** I was planning on actually attending that party, for your information. ‘Emergency’ was not, in fact, an exaggeration. I was halfway to the Institute when Georgie called.

**Timothy Stoker:** fair fair

**Timothy Stoker:** youve got a rip in your sleeve btw

**Jonathan Sims:** Oh good lord.

Dec. 23, 2015, 22:36

**_Martin Blackwood_ ** _to **Jonathan Sims**_

**Martin Blackwood:** jon I found him!!!!

**Martin Blackwood** : [photo message]

**Martin Blackwood:** he seems a little scared but overall he’s okay!!! i’m omw back to georgie’s flat rn

**Jonathan Sims:** Oh thank god.

**Jonathan Sims:** Martin, I

**Martin Blackwood:**?

**Martin Blackwood:** jon?

**Martin Blackwood:** are u okay?

Dec. 23, 2015, 22:36

**_Jonathan Sims_ ** _to **Georgie Barker**_

**Jonathan Sims:** Martin found the Admiral.

**Jonathan Sims:** [photo message]

**Georgie Barker:**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Georgie Barker:** Oh thank god

**Jonathan Sims:** Completely unrelated question: hypothetically, would it be normal to want to kiss someone who, for example, helped you find something you’d lost?

**Jonathan Sims:** Uh.

**Jonathan Sims:** Never mind, forget I said anything.

**Georgie Barker:** Oh, like that’s going to happen

**Georgie Barker:** Wait I see Martin. I’m going to go, but we are having this conversation later. You can’t get out of it, so don’t try

**Jonathan Sims:** Please?

**Jonathan Sims:** Georgie?

**Jonathan Sims:** Hold on, I see you.

**Jonathan Sims:** Georgie, why are you looking at me?

**Jonathan Sims:** Why is Martin looking at me?

**Jonathan Sims:** Georgie?

Dec. 23, 2015, 22:54

_Call accepted from_ **_Elias Bouchard_ ** _to_ **_Jonathan Sims_ **

Dec. 23, 2015, 22:57

**_Timothy Stoker_ ** _to_ **_Jonathan Sims_ **

**Timothy Stoker:** why do u look like u just ate a lemon

**Timothy Stoker:** the admiral is literally on ur lap what could possibly be so horrible

**Timothy Stoker:** and may i remind u that he was on MY lap before u so rudely STOLE him from me

**Jonathan Sims:** Tim, why are you texting me? I’m sitting right next to you.

**Timothy Stoker:** uhh discretion? but i can ask u in front of everyone if u prefer

**Timothy Stoker:** oh thats quite a look lol

**Timothy Stoker:** sorry sorry

**Timothy Stoker:** so r u going to tell me or

**Jonathan Sims:** Fine. Elias called. He’s not happy that the entire Archival staff isn’t at the holiday party. He says, quote, that, “At least one representative from each department is required to attend” and that the Institute’s benefactors were asking after me.

**Timothy Stoker:** and????

**Timothy Stoker:** what did u say????

**Jonathan Sims:** I told him we all had a family emergency. And then you shouted something in the background about how the Admiral likes you better than Sasha, and he definitely heard. So I hung up on him.

**Timothy Stoker:** jonathan!!!

**Timothy Stoker:** you hung up on the mega boss???

**Timothy Stoker:** it’s a christmas miracle

**Jonathan Sims:** Stop looking at me like that.

**Jonathan Sims:** Tim.

Dec. 24, 2015, 08:15

**_Martin Blackwood_ ** _to_ **_Jonathan Sims_ **

****

**Martin Blackwood:** good morning!

**Martin Blackwood:** i just wanted to check in and see if the admiral is alright

**Martin Blackwood:** and uh, to say that you can ask us for help! if this ever happens again. or if you need help with anything else in the future

**Martin Blackwood:** anyway, happy holidays!

**Jonathan Sims:** Thank you, Martin.

**Jonathan Sims:** Happy holidays.

**Jonathan Sims:** :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon sent the :) and martin spent the next half hour staring at it with Gay Panic


	5. lost and found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a box on Jon’s desk. It’s small and square, wrapped in shining red paper with little tiny reindeer on it and adorned with a small bow tied in silver ribbon, the ends meticulously curled. And it _definitely_ hadn’t been there before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt: gifts
> 
> ft. pining jonmartin and the light angst i told myself i wouldn't write

There’s a box on Jon’s desk. It’s small and square, wrapped in shining red paper with little tiny reindeer on it and adorned with a quaint bow tied from silver ribbon, the ends meticulously curled. It had _certainly_ not been there when Jon had left his office a half-hour prior, what was meant to be a short trip to Artifact Storage to confirm their possession of a solid gold telescope turning into a rather long and arduous affair when the item had proven difficult to locate.

They’d found it tucked away in a back corner in the end. ‘Incorrectly labelled,’ they’d said with an apologetic smile. He’s sure his annoyance had been clear by the way their smile had faltered, ever so slightly, as they led him back to the door.

So he’s still a bit put-off when he spots the gift, tucked on the corner of his desk against an empty mug with a stained tea bag hanging out of it. It’s not annoyance, per se, that leads him to tuck the gift away in the bottom left drawer of his desk next to several sheaths of yellowing official Institute paper. It’s just practical. He’ll get it out of the way, finish up this statement that he’s now sorely behind schedule on, and then he’ll take a closer look at it. After the _Halloween_ incident, he’s significantly less inclined to open parcels that mysteriously appear on his desk.

He tells himself he’ll get to it eventually.

He doesn’t. By the time he’s finished recording the statement, all thoughts of red wrapping paper have left his mind, and the box sits in the drawer, untouched.

It stays that way for several months.

Until Jon’s opening every drawer on his desk, _sure_ that he’s got a spare toothbrush tucked away somewhere that he can lend Martin, who’s sitting on a cot in document storage and did not, in fact, think to bring a toothbrush when fleeing his flat after being trapped for two weeks by Jane Prentiss. He opens the bottom left drawer, and sees the gift.

For a moment, he just stares at it, not quite sure what it’s doing tucked away in his desk. The paper is still as vibrant as ever, though the cheery reindeer are several months out of date. Then, like a record skipping, his mind catches on the memory of the box on his desk, and he lets out a little noise of surprise.

“Jon?”

Jon’s got the box in his hands, inspecting it for any sort of tag that could tell him who it had been from, and he nearly drops it in shock at the sound of Martin’s voice. He straightens quickly, the gift still clutched in one hand, and winces at the strain it puts on his knees.

“Martin. I apologize, I’ve been unable to locate a toothbrush. I can retrieve one, however; I believe there’s a shop just down the street that may—”

“No, Jon, it’s…” Martin’s staring at the gift, a light pink colouring the tops of his cheeks. “It’s, uh.” He shuffles a bit in place, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Er, where did you get that?”

“Hm?” Jon looks at the gift in his hands. “Ah.” He’s struck with the sudden certainty that he looks extremely foolish, standing there and holding, of all things, a _Christmas_ gift. Embarrassment sits heavy in his stomach, and he says, probably too curtly, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Oh.” Martin’s hand drops from his neck and his eyes fall away from the gift, focusing on the floor between them. “R- right. Sorry. I’ll just- I’ll just go back to document storage. Don’t, er. Don’t worry about the toothbrush, Jon.”

His office door swings shut with a _click,_ and embarrassment is quickly consumed by guilt. Jon runs a tired hand over his eyes and hesitates for a long moment before exiting his office and making his way to document storage.

Martin’s sitting on the cot, staring down at something clutched in his hands. Jon lingers in the doorway, the reluctance to intrude warring with the guilt at having likely made a rather harrowing and horrific day even worse. He doesn’t mean to look at the item Martin’s holding—a photo, crinkled around the edges like it’s been held like this hundreds of times—but a deep curiosity drags his eyes to it all the same.

His guilt intensifies—Christ, he shouldn’t be spying on Martin’s private business—and to cover it up, he raps his knuckles sharply on the doorframe.

Martin startles so badly that the photo slips out of his hands, fluttering face-up onto the floor. His eyes, when they meet Jon’s, are blown wide with fear, and too late, Jon remembers Martin’s statement. The _knocking._

“Oh, Christ.” Jon takes a small step back, trying to hide his stricken expression in the shadow of the doorway. “I’m sorry, Martin. I- I didn’t think.”

Martin draws in a long, shaky breath. “No, it- it’s fine, Jon. I just- I was just surprised, that’s all.”

The lie sits heavy in the air between them, and it makes Jon’s skin prickle with discomfort. He clears his throat in a failed effort dispel the awkwardness and says, “Right. Well, I.” He pauses, collects himself, tries to school his voice into something even and to smooth out the stutter that always crops up when he’s nervous or uncomfortable or, really, feeling any sort of emotion at all. His tone carefully neutral, he says, “I felt it was only appropriate to apologise for my curtness earlier. It was quite uncalled for.” He hesitates again before focusing his resolve and continuing, “I received the gift during the holidays from an unknown party, and I’d meant to open it at a later time but had placed it in my desk for convenience and then forgotten about it.” Then, like some sort of shiny red olive branch, he extends the gift toward Martin. “Perhaps you would like it instead? I’m not entirely sure that I was even the intended recipient, given that my failure to open it went unnoticed.”

Martin’s face is flushed a red as bright as the wrapping paper, and he’s shaking his head before Jon is even finished speaking. “No,” he says forcefully, which, when combined with the vigour with which he’s shaking his head, seems quite redundant. “I- thank you, Jon, but no.”

Jon retracts the gift and holds it tightly to him, feeling a pang of something he decides to call embarrassment in his chest. “Right. I understand.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the silence between them so thick and cloying that he thinks it might suffocate him. Then, he notices the photo sitting a few feet away from him and in an attempt to push away the discomfort coiling in his stomach, he bends down and retrieves it.

Martin lets out a small noise, and when Jon looks at him, his hand is outstretched in what looks like an aborted motion to keep Jon from picking up the photo. At Jon’s glance, however, he retracts his arm quickly and hugs it to his chest, his eyes locked onto the photo in Jon’s hand with an expression Jon can’t quite read.

“I… you dropped this,” Jon says stiffly, and he means to pass the photo back to Martin without further comment, but without really meaning to, his eyes drift down to look at it.

It’s him. And Tim and Sasha and Martin, sitting around a table that Jon recognizes from the break room, with a cake and several bottles of wine placed before them. It’s from his birthday, he realizes, when Tim had thrown that _godawful_ surprise party and nearly taken a year off his life instead of celebrating another one lived. He hadn’t even been aware of the camera, and his face is twisted into a rather impressive scowl as Tim says something that has his lips curling up into a wide, teasing grin, the kind he gets when he’s calling Jon’s sweater vests _stuffy_. One of Sasha’s hands is wrapped around a wine glass, the other propping up her chin as she looks at the two of them with what Jon can only describe as _fond exasperation._ And Martin…

Without warning, the photo is snatched from his hands, but not before he notices the light curve to Martin’s lips in the picture as he looks at Jon, the softness in his face that paints a stark contrast to the way that Martin looks now—stiffness in every plane of his body, even as he begins to stammer out apologies.

“Martin,” Jon says finally, when it appears that nothing short of an interruption is going to stop him. “It’s fine. I… shouldn’t have looked at your personal belongings.”

Martin’s mouth snaps shut. After a moment, it loosens enough to let out a small sigh. He looks down at the photo, rubbing an absent thumb over the upper right edge where the wear-and-tear looks more severe than the other parts of the photo, and says, “It was silly, really. The entire time I was trapped in my flat, I… I kept telling myself that _someone_ would notice. That even if it had been over a week, and surely someone should have _noticed_ by now, that someone would still come for me. But I don’t think I ever believed it, not really. It just felt easier than admitting that I… that I’d been forgotten.” His hand tightens around the photo, not enough to crinkle it but just enough to fold the edges inward along pre-determined lines, speaking of hundreds of similar motions in the past. “The photo just made it easier, I suppose. To convince myself that I wasn’t alone.”

Something sharp and unpleasant sticks in the back of Jon’s throat, and it takes him entirely too long to realize that it’s concern, like barbed wires in his chest and slick with that same guilt that never quite left him. He takes a step forward, hesitates. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to _do._ He’s not good at comforting people and he’s not _close_ to Martin, not enough to know the right words or to pull him into his side and try to smooth away two weeks of discomfort with a gentle touch. He spends most of his working hours criticising Martin’s poor work ethic and most of his non-working hours—few as they may be—not thinking of Martin at all. It’s really not his place to offer anything other than safe accommodations and surface-level condolences.

He considers offering the gift again, just for a moment, simply because he has nothing else to give. But in the end, all he says, quietly, is, “I’m sorry, Martin. We didn’t know. I assure you, we would have come had we had any indication that you were in danger.”

It feels like a half-baked excuse and a flimsy attempt at comfort at best, but a small smile comes across Martin’s lips all the same. “Thanks, Jon. I… I appreciate it.”

It all feels a bit much, suddenly, and Jon’s sure that Martin likely needs a good night of rest if the dark bags under his eyes are anything to go by. So he says, abruptly, “Well, good night then, Martin. If you have need of anything else, I’ll be in my office.”

He steps out of document storage and closes the door behind him, Martin’s _good night, Jon_ following him all the way back to his office, where he sits heavily in his desk chair and tries to calm the rapid-fire pounding of his heart and the shaking of his hands.

Maybe it would be best if he got some sleep as well. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he fell asleep at his desk, and though it’ll probably send his back screaming with aches and pains in the morning, surely one night wouldn’t cause any lasting damage.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s still clutching the gift, the curled ribbons brushing against his knuckles. He’s not sure what compels him to remove the wrapping paper, curiosity finally winning out over caution, or to open the little brown box underneath.

It’s a cat, made entirely of black-coloured glass with two glittering yellow gems set in place of its eyes. It fits neatly in the palm of his hand, smooth and cool against his skin, and he rubs a thumb over it absently.

He’s never really liked gifts. They always seemed so _frivolous_ , often being something he would never buy for himself, a kitschy thing that had no use other than to sit on a shelf and gather dust until it was inevitably donated to a charity shop. He’s awful at buying gifts, never knowing what to get someone and adamant that they would know best what they wanted, and he’s been told on numerous occasions that he’s quite difficult to buy gifts for as well. He’d tried not to take it personally. He’d only partially succeeded.

Normally, he likes gifts that are _useful._ A new set of pots and pans like his grandmother had given him one year in uni, or a set of fountain pens that Georgie had picked out for him once after he’d complained about the poor quality of ballpoint pens. He’s never understood the point of giving somebody something that they can’t use because it seems like an awful lot of money wasted on something that has no purpose other than to _sit._ Still, he can’t stop staring at the little glass cat, running his thumb over the gem eyes and feeling the way they catch against his skin.

He sets it on the corner of his desk, nestled securely between his lamp and a square container of various pens and pencils so he won’t accidentally knock it off. And if he finds his hand going to it absently in the coming months, rubbing a thumb along the smooth glass when he’s stressed or anxious or frustrated with the latest false statement, then it’s neither here nor there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin teases jon endlessly in the safehouse for having forgotten about martin's gift for _three months_


	6. ten to one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their _pre-countdown_ bottles. 
> 
> Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.
> 
> \----
> 
> The archival staff counts down to the new year with cupcakes, champagne, and cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt: new years, archive polycule
> 
> meant to post this yesterday but time got away from me. enjoy this nye fic on new years day haha

_10_

That’s how many little cupcakes Tim’s eaten, by Jon’s count. When Tim grins at him, his sharp-toothed smile is stained black from the frosting.

“You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their _pre-countdown_ bottles.

Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

“I’ll have you know,” Tim says, sliding closer to Jon on the couch and snagging his glass out of his hand, “that I have a stomach of steel. It’s sick-free!”

He takes a long sip of champagne as if to prove his point. His lips stain the rim of the glass black.

“Tim,” Jon says flatly. “That’s disgusting.”

Tim looks at the glass, noticing the discolouration. “Huh.” Then, a wide grin splits his mouth nearly in two, and before Jon can pull back, Tim presses a quick kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough that Jon can taste the sugar on Tim’s mouth.

It’s nice, and for a moment, Jon’s irritation melts a bit, softened by the champagne in his stomach and the feeling of Tim’s lips on his.

Then, Tim pulls back too-quick and squints at Jon’s mouth. “Huh,” he repeats. “Looks like black food dye really _does_ stain everything.”

Jon looks at the glass, still in Tim’s hand, and then at Tim’s lips, tinged ever so slightly with black. His own still taste of sugar.

“ _Tim!_ ”

_9_

That’s how old Martin was the last time he spent New Year’s Eve with someone. It had been the first time his parents had let him stay up until midnight, and they’d given him a champagne flute of sparkling apple juice so that when the clock hit midnight he could toast the new year just like they did. He’d barely made it, his eyes fighting a losing battle against exhaustion as the new year inched closer and closer, but he’d _done it._

That had been a long time ago, though. After a while, Martin had taken to treating New Year’s Eve like any other day. No point in forcing himself to stay up late for something that was bound to be disappointing in the end.

Now, though, Martin’s sat on the couch at Sasha’s house with Tim’s legs across his lap and Sasha tucked into his side, a large container of cheesy popcorn balanced between the three of them. Jon’s somewhere in the kitchen, having squirmed out from underneath Tim long enough to take the chestnuts out of the oven. From the little frustrated noises Martin can hear coming from the kitchen, Jon’s struggling to extract them from their shells.

Martin’s really not a fan of chestnuts. But he’d rather die than tell Jon that right now.

So when Jon finally returns to the living room, a steaming bowl of shucked chestnuts in his hand, Martin accepts one with a smile. And maybe it’s something about that night or the way that Jon’s smiling at him, but when he bites into the chestnut, he doesn’t hate it.

He doesn’t hate it at all.

_8_

That’s what time Jon appears at Sasha’s front door, on time to the minute. He’s a good fifteen minutes ahead of Martin, who had sent Sasha a _running late!_ text with a string of apologetic emojis attached to it, and at least an hour ahead of Tim, who has being fashionably late down to a science. Jon seems nervous, shifting back and forth on Sasha’s threshold with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a large bag of raw chestnuts in the other.

Sasha lets him in with a warm greeting and a smile (and, once she’s taken the bottle out of his hands so he won’t drop it, a quick kiss on his cheek). He sets the chestnuts on the counter, his eyes going to her living room couch, then the kitchen, before finding her again.

“Am I too early?” he says, eyes wide and unsure, and Sasha wonders briefly how he’d ever managed to convince them that he was _stuffy_ and _closed-off._ Particularly when he’s standing in her living room, clutching a bag of chestnuts in his arms like a lifeline.

“Nope,” Sasha says, extracting the chestnuts from his arms with a smile. “You’re right on time.”

_7_

That’s how many times Sasha’s caught Tim trying to open the bottle of _special midnight_ champagne, tucked away on the far corner of the counter and labelled with a bright blue sticky note to _avoid_ being accidentally opened. She supposes if she’d wanted to Tim-proof it, she probably should have put it in a locked safe. Though he knows her so well, he’d probably be able to guess the passcode.

It should be irritating. Somehow, it’s hopelessly endearing instead.

“ _Tim,_ ” Sasha says, snatching the champagne out of his hands as his thumbnail begins to pick at the gold foil covering the cork. There’s a rip in it when she extracts it from him, revealing a small strip of cork underneath. “That’s for _later!_ ” Her eyes slide to the left, where there’s a half-full, _open_ bottle of champagne sitting on the counter next to them. “What’s wrong with _that_ champagne?”

Tim gives her the saddest set of puppy dog eyes he has in his arsenal. “Sasha, I have been waiting _months_ to drink that champagne. Months! I don’t _want_ to wait until later!”

A weaker woman would have folded under the impressive weight of Timothy Stoker’s big brown eyes and pouting lips. Sasha just grabs the open bottle of champagne and presses it into Tim’s hands with a smile and a quick kiss on those same lips. “Later,” she repeats, before taking the bottle to hide it somewhere Tim won’t be able to find it.

She hopes.

_6_

That’s how many letters are in Martin’s name, Tim thinks idly as he runs his hands through Martin’s hair, scratching his nails lightly against Martin’s scalp. Somehow, in the rearranging of the four of them on Sasha’s obscenely long couch, Tim had ended up with Martin’s head on his lap, and he _certainly_ isn’t going to complain.

Sasha and Jon are bickering about some small detail in the movie they’ve put on, Tim thinks, like they always do—is it pronounced this way or that way, would a wide shot or a close-up be better here, would that specific piece of clothing have been period-typical at the time ( _yes, if it were dyed with indigo flowers_ , Jon had said primly, which had then been followed by a _hey_ as Sasha’s elbow connected with his side)—and so he’s got Martin all to himself. Which is such a lovely place to be, he thinks as he continues to massage Martin’s scalp with his fingers.

“Tim,” Martin says, his voice pinched slightly in that way it always gets when he’s receiving affection—like he’s always surprised by it, half-expecting it to be taken away without warning. “I have to tell you something.”

Tim hums, a soothing noise, and says, “Okay, but I should warn you—I’m currently seeing someone. Several someones, actually. In fact, I believe it would technically be _three_ —”

“Okay, okay,” Martin says, one hand coming up to swat at Tim’s. His mouth is curled into a small, amused smile. “No need to be so…” He waves a hand in the air vaguely.

“Handsome?” Tim suggests with a sharp grin.

“ _Cheeky.”_

Tim puts on a comically large expression of shock. “No. Me? Couldn’t be.”

Martin laughs, a small and breathy thing, and Tim loves him for it. His expression slips into something warmer and real, and he resumes running his hands through Martin’s hair. “Fine, fine, I’m listening. Go ahead, Martin.”

“Thank you.” Martin closes his eyes, hums gently, and says, without opening his eyes, “You have frosting on your nose.”

_5_

That’s how many fingers are on Jon’s left hand as it finds Martin’s on the couch, those same fingers threading through Martin’s with an ease that could be practised had it not been just a few months since _working together_ had turned into _getting lunch together_ had turned into _pining_ had turned into… everything else. Martin had spent a lot of time looking at Jon’s hands, before; the way that his knuckles are wider than the rest of the finger, or the way that he drums his fingers on his desk when he’s bored, or the way that his hands look wrapped around a mug of tea, black and over-steeped just like Jon likes it.

They’d looked soft, Martin had thought.

He’d been right.

The kiss Martin places over the top of Jon’s knuckles is quick and impulsive, his lips still wearing the smile from something Tim had said and his other hand clasped with Sasha’s (her grip is _impressively tight,_ like she’s afraid she’s going to drop him). The soft, surprised smile that Jon gives him is worth the entire world.

_4_

That’s how many cards Tim has to draw when Martin plays the Draw 4 Uno card, giving him an apologetic smile that does nothing to alleviate the fact that Tim had _one card left_ and was _about to win, goddammit!_

“Martin,” Tim says as he draws painstaking card after painstaking card. “Dearest Martin.” He draws another card. “Lovely, kind Martin.” He draws the final card and gives Martin his best solemn expression. “This is how you ruin relationships, Martin. This, right here.”

Martin’s face is flushed pink, but his voice is casual when he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tim. I’m just playing the game.”

Tim points at Martin, looking back and forth between Jon and Sasha for support. “Do you hear that? Nothing but disrespect. Treachery. A fatal blow!”

Sasha looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Jon just looks bemused. “I mean, he _is_ just playing the game,” Jon says with a small shrug. “And I believe he’s winning.”

Tim looks over at the single card Martin’s holding, and before his brain can process the situation fast enough to call Martin out for not declaring it, Martin says quickly, “Uno!”

“Jon!” Tim says, kind of wishing it hadn’t come out so _whiny_ but feeling altogether too slighted to do anything about it.

“My turn,” Jon says, and plays a reverse card.

“Oh, I hate you _all._ ”

_3_

That’s how many glasses of champagne Martin has had, which is a _lot_ for him since he doesn’t really make a habit of drinking, especially wine, which tends to give him a headache even if he drinks white. But Jon had assured him that champagne is essentially tannin-free, having minimal skin and oak contact, so the only thing Martin had to worry about was his own terrible alcohol tolerance.

Well, Jon hadn’t said that last part. That was just Martin.

Three glasses, it seems, is enough to activate Martin’s least-favourite part about drinking—the complete inability of his brain to keep every single thing that comes across his mind from spilling out into the open. He’s already told Sasha that he accidentally stole the cardigan she keeps in her desk at work and, by the time he realized a week later, was too embarrassed to give it back. (“So _that’s_ where that went!” Sasha had said with an accusatory tone.) He interrupted Tim mid-sentence to tell him, quite abruptly, that whenever Tim wore that black-and-white patterned shirt to work—which was just a bit smaller on him than the others and which he usually wore with the top two buttons unbuttoned—he could never stop _staring_ at it. (“Really?” Tim had said with a smirk. “I suppose I’ll have to wear it more often then.”)

And now, when Jon shoots Tim a _very_ impressive glare and says, in his best professional voice, “I don’t think that’s quite work-appropriate, Tim,” Martin isn’t able to keep himself from blurting out that he finds Jon’s “archivist” voice really, _really_ hot.

The silence that blankets the room at that is deafening. Tim looks delighted; Sasha looks amused. And the flush that spreads over Jon’s face is really quite impressive, visible even in the low light of Sasha’s living room.

Martin _really_ shouldn’t have had that third glass of champagne.

_2_

That’s how many cats Sasha has, until now shut away in her bedroom to avoid being overwhelmed by the loud noise or being stepped on. At Tim’s insistence (and Jon’s not-so-subtle glances toward her closed door), Sasha finally relents, but not before pointing a stern finger at Tim and telling him to _behave._

(“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Tim says innocently, like he doesn’t _always_ end up getting himself bitten or scratched.)

Now, one cat—an orange-and-white shorthair named Darwin—is curled up in front of the television, currently being assaulted by Tim and Martin as they spoil him with pets and treats and the little feather on a string that he likes. The other—a midnight-black longhair named Emily with wide yellow eyes—is sprawled across Jon’s lap, her purring loud enough that Sasha can hear it from the kitchen where she’s subtly retrieving the bottle of midnight champagne from its hiding place. Sasha’s pretty sure she’s never seen Jon look at _anything_ like that—with eyes full of love and wonder and the corners of his mouth pulled up into what looks like an involuntary smile.

Sasha’s suddenly so very in love with him—with _all_ of them—that she can barely breathe. It’s not an emotion she’s very comfortable with—she’s never gotten crushes easily, and the ones she’s had tended to ruin year-long friendships when they sprung up almost overnight, when her brain finally decided that it wanted _more._ Jon, she’s known for ages, their desks in research being directly across from one another and her persistence knowing no bounds. Martin longer still, having met him when he worked in the library and she worked in artifact storage. Tim is the most recent, technically, but god, it feels like she’s known him her whole life.

There’s a small shriek from the living room, and when Sasha looks back, she sees Tim with his hand buried in the fur of Darwin’s stomach, Darwin’s teeth nipping at the flesh of Tim’s thumb. “Ow ow ow, _sharp,_ ” Tim says, but he’s laughing, and he continues to rub at Darwin’s belly with a smile on his face.

Really, Sasha thinks as she turns back to the kitchen with a smile of her own, there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

_1_

That’s how many minutes there are until midnight. The glass of champagne in Jon’s hand looks exactly the same as all the others, but Sasha had insisted that it was _better, Jon, it’ll taste heavenly, I promise_ , so he holds it and watches the numbers on the television screen begin to count down.

It strikes Jon, as the seconds pass and midnight draws closer, that he’s never really felt any need to celebrate the new year. The two days—New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day—were technically indistinguishable from one other, delineated only by the human decision to make them so, and therefore what was the point really of staying up so late just to drink bad wine and stare at a clock? He’d gone to a New Year’s Eve party once with Georgie in uni, and it had been _fine,_ but once they broke up he really didn’t see any reason to attend another. He disliked everything about New Year’s celebrations—the bad champagne, the resolutions nobody kept, the way he always wrote the date wrong for a few weeks afterwards.

He doesn’t dislike this, though, he realizes, sitting with Tim pressed up against one side and Martin against the other and Sasha on the end of the couch next to Tim, all of them watching the countdown with rapt attention. Maybe the champagne is terrible and the resolutions are silly and having to constantly erase the last number of the year will be frustrating, but this—being together, celebrating together—really isn’t so bad at all.

The countdown reaches ten, and Tim begins to vocalize the numbers along with it as they flash across the screen, altogether too loudly for this time of night. Sasha and Martin join in at _eight,_ and Jon finally makes up his mind as the counter hits _one,_ his lips shaping the word along with the rest of them.

Glasses clink and champagne is drunk (not _heavenly,_ Jon thinks, but more palatable than the rest) and kisses are shared as _Happy New Year!_ flashes across the television screen. And, Jon thinks, it’s really quite lovely after all. To bring in the new year with the people you love.

_0_

That’s how many of them wake up the next morning without mouths full of cotton and pounding headaches, the several empty bottles of champagne making themselves known.

“Ughhhhh,” Tim groans eloquently, and falls back asleep.


	7. rice and almonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Looks like we’re stuck here in front of the _awfully_ warm fire and I’ll be _forced_ to make us some hot chocolate,” Tim says with a grin.
> 
> “Your facetiousness is not appreciated,” Jon says flatly. Then, more sullenly: “And we’re out of hot chocolate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompts: snowed in, traditions, jonmartim
> 
> i know it's technically not december anymore, but i had this one planned out already so here it is! it's an au where somehow tim survives the unknowing and ends up going to the safehouse with jon and martin.

“Yup,” Tim says as he shuts the front door behind him, shaking fat snowflakes out of his hair with a gloved hand. His nose is flushed red from the cold. “It’s pretty bad out there. There’s a foot of snow at _least,_ and even if we could drive through it, I’m not entirely sure where the road actually _is._ ” His mouth twitches into a smile even as he says mournfully, “Looks like we’re stuck here in front of the _awfully_ warm fire and I’ll be _forced_ to make us some hot chocolate. Oh, what a shame. I’d _so_ been looking forward to facing the elements just to get some groceries.”

“Your facetiousness is not appreciated,” Jon says flatly, the disdainful look on his face neutralized by the fuzzy green blanket he’s cocooned in and the fact that he’s sitting on Martin’s lap, his head tucked into the crook of Martin’s neck. Then, more sullenly: “And we’re out of hot chocolate.”

“I’m fairly sure _you_ drank the last of it, actually,” Martin says pointedly.

Tim makes a disappointed noise as he shucks off his gloves and boots. “Well, I guess I’m just going to have to get creative. We can’t be _entirely_ out of food, can we?”

They’re not, as it turns out, entirely out of food. Though they’re certainly close; Tim stares into their nearly-empty cabinets, pushing a few cans aside with a grimace.

_Fuck,_ he’s freezing. It’s not like a wooden cottage in the middle of the Scottish highlands has the best insulation, and that had been fine in September but now that it’s January Tim finds himself waking up with frozen toes and goosebumps more often than not. He shivers as he stares at the containers of rice and pasta in front of him, silently berating his past self for not having thought to ration the hot drink he’s so desperately craving.

His eyes linger on the rice, then on the bag of sliced almonds next to it. And he has an idea.

* * *

The abrupt clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen isn’t an unusual phenomenon in the cottage. Once they’d moved in together—though that was quite a simplified term for taking refuge in a safehouse after fleeing a 200-year-old eldritch bureaucrat and the more banal London police department—they’d fallen into a routine within the first few weeks, unspoken between the three of them yet comfortable enough that nobody deigned to change it. Jon hardly sleeps at all these days (to both Tim and Martin’s concern) so he gets up early to make breakfast and to tend to the garden they’d started behind the cottage. Tim wakes next, typically running in the early morning before the sun fully emerges from the horizon and sometimes bringing back things from the town as he passes through. Martin’s last, and once he wakes he makes the tea and always insists on doing the dishes afterwards, even though Jon maintains that, as the cook, that’s his job.

Martin does the laundry. Jon keeps the cottage organized, putting everything back into its place. And Tim has a tendency to cook at the strangest times, turning snacks into elaborate affairs that usually involve three separate pans and a myriad of ingredients that he buys only to use once. So when the familiar cacophony of drawers opening and closing and spoons hitting pots erupts from the kitchen, Martin just smiles softly and continues tapping his pen against his notebook, the page frustratingly blank.

“Lacking inspiration?” Jon says without looking up from his book—something obscure Tim had picked up from the local bookstore that’s written entirely in Latin, and no, Martin is _not_ jealous that Tim always seems to pick out a book that Jon likes even though Martin can never seem to manage it, thank you very much—and Martin startles slightly, almost dropping his pen.

Then, Martin sighs, closing his notebook around his pen and setting it aside. “I guess? Just not feeling very _poetic_ today, I suppose.”

Jon hums and flips a page of his book, though Martin gets the feeling that it’s just so he has something to do with his hands. His suspicion is confirmed a moment later when Jon sighs, slips the little scrap of paper he’s using as a bookmark in between the pages, and sets the book off to the side. Then, he wriggles and turns—earning Martin a bony elbow in the side and a mouth full of hair—until he’s facing Martin, so close that his breath ghosts across Martin’s lips.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he says quietly, the corner of his mouth tipping upward ever so slightly. It brings a burning heat to Martin’s cheeks despite the chill permeating the cottage.

“Jon,” Martin says, “I have _literal_ notebooks full of poetry about you. I’m trying to expand my horizons.”

One of Jon’s eyebrows crooks upward. “Oh, is that so?” He looks over Martin’s shoulder at the kitchen. “What about Tim?”

As if on cue, Tim calls from the kitchen, “Hey! Stop flirting without me, you two.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Martin fires back just as quickly, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Unbelievable,” Tim says, his voice full of mock-disgust. “Nothing but disrespect in this safehouse.”

* * *

The mug of steaming white liquid that Tim’s pressed into Jon’s hands smells of cinnamon and almonds, and Jon’s thankful for the warmth that’s seeping through the sides of the mug and into the palms of his hands. He clutches it tightly and Knows that horchata is traditionally served over ice and that Tim didn’t soak the almonds quite long enough (and cheated by boiling the rice) and that Danny used to put too much rum in it and would turn red when the alcohol hit his tongue.

That last bit sends small tendrils of guilt lacing through Jon—he hates Knowing things about Tim and Martin against their wills, even something as small as this—and to cover it up, he takes a long sip of the horchata. It’s creamy and cloyingly sweet—Tim doubled the sugar, the Eye supplies unnecessarily—and Jon is entirely unsurprised to find that it’s exactly to his taste.

“Family recipe,” Tim explains as he sits on the couch next to them with his own mug. Martin had thrown a few more logs on the fire while Tim was in the kitchen, and the flames send flickering shadows across Tim’s face as he takes a sip of his own horchata. “We always used to make a big pot for Christmas when I was younger, before… you know.” He waves a hand in the air, his mouth twitching briefly into something sadder. Jon feels guilt of a different kind curl in his stomach, one he thinks will never quite leave him, one born of paranoia and anger and broken bridges that are still being rebuilt. “Danny and I would have competitions to see who could drink the most, and when we got older, we tried to see who could sneak the most rum into it without getting caught. Danny always won, of course. Pretty sure one year it was almost all rum. Mom was _not_ happy, but you know, she never really was during the holidays. I think it was the stress of making the meals and getting the house ready and entertaining our extended family for the entire week.” Tim takes another drink of his horchata, this one longer, and when he comes up for air, his lips fold back into a small smile. “Almost forgot how to make it, it’s been so long.”

Martin’s looking into his mug like it holds the secrets of the universe, his mouth pressed into an expression that’s all too familiar to Jon. It’s the same one Martin wears when Jon asks him to help him with the garden, or when Tim once called him “sweetheart,” or when he accidentally scalds the tea.

He hates it. And Jon can tell when Tim catches on because Tim’s eyes widen slightly and he makes a noise that Jon can only describe as _aghast._ “Martin!” he says, the change in tone abrupt enough that Martin startles, the liquid in his mug sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “I can’t believe it! I’m in love with a man who has _no_ taste in beverages. None at all! No coffee, no sugar in your tea, and now no _horchata?_ You wound me, Martin Blackwood.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Martin practically squeaks, his cheeks bright red and his hands gripping the mug so tightly Jon thinks it might actually be in danger of breaking. “It’s- I don’t _hate_ it, I just- it’s just very _sweet,_ and you- you know I’m not a big fan of sweets, and it’s- it’s really very lovely, Tim, I _promise_ , I don’t—”

It’s a firm elbow in Tim’s side that eventually has him taking mercy on Martin, cutting him off with a quick, “Hey, hey, Martin, it’s fine. I’m kidding. Mostly. Jon, _quit_ elbowing me, I’m not done yet. What I was _going_ to say is that it’s not really the drink that counts, you know? It’s the people you share it with. And I’m happy that I get to share it with both of you. Okay?”

“Oh.” Martin’s face is still red, but his hands no longer have the mug in a death grip. “I, er. I’m really happy, too, Tim. And thank you for the drink—really, I promise. It’s nice to have something warm, even if I’m not going to. Er. Actually drink it.”

Jon takes a small sip of his horchata and says, with a teasing smile, “Well _I_ think the horchata’s lovely, Tim.”

Jon gets two elbows in his sides and subsequently spills his drink on the fuzzy green blanket. (“Now I’m going to have to wash that, Jon,” Martin complains even as he hands Jon his still-full mug.) And outside the cottage walls, snow continues to paint the world in glittering white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last one! thank you all for reading, i had a lot of fun writing these and seeing everyone's comments on them 💛 i hope you have a wonderful new year!

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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